Palm-sized Nirvana

It left me breathless. I wanted to embrace the world, jump off mountains, bear-hug lions, and put my life on the line, because this is the way it should be! I can transcend the daily! I can be more! I can be a hero! The angelic music only confirms it: this is my destiny, and this camera company is simply revealing it to me. 

One has to marvel at the marketing skills of GoPro. They came on the market at the same time as other outdoor action cams, but they blitzed so hard with advertising that the competition is hardly known. GoPro has televisions for their retail displays, endlessly looping footage of what your life could be like if you had one of these cameras. Oh, and it's appealing. I have one of their earlier models and it can do some pretty cool stuff, but I certainly haven't seen evidence that the vast majority of GoPro owners are actually editing their material to let others know of their exploits. The camera is a great tool (and this one is even smaller and lighter!!) that takes fantastic footage, but for all its glitz, it doesn't actually offer the life that it portrays. 

Bummer.  

I watched this video yesterday morning when the GoPro Hero3+ debuted. I was awestruck. Admittedly, I wanted one, because the vision of glory that they depict is what I want in life. At least I should want it. I mean, wanting that image of life will help me buy the camera, right?

Videos such as these help me look at my ideals. But the ideals aren't really the problem, it's the difference between my deep, inner desires, and what I want to portray. They often are not the same. I'd like to be the lithe snowboard phenom who slays the extreme backcountry routes, but actually, I think I just want to look that good on film. I don't really want to slog up that mountain with all my gear, nervous about avalanches and breaking my femur, and then get down to the bottom all too quickly. Others do. They really, really do. But not me. I only think I do after watching that glorious, sunny, slow-mo video, that makes those people look like gods.

If the new GoPro helps people to achieve these sorts of dreams, then awesome. What helps me, though, is to take the feelings that I get from watching GoPro's brilliant new advertising video and put them toward finding out what I really, really want in life - connection, creativity, beauty, fairness, worthwhile vocation - and then go after those like I was flying down a mountain on a flimsy piece of wood. 

I do want to hug friendly lions, though.  Yes, yes, I do.

Postscript (10/11/13): GoPro continues to market well. Check out the latest tear jerker. 

Those wild and crazy Greeks

Bellingham had its Greek Festival recently, which basically is a fund-raiser for the Greek Orthodox church and a great opportunity to overeat.

I had the chance to attend with my housemate, who has a Greek heritage. Her smile grew wider and wider as she recognized the hard-to-pronounce names of food, informing me how the items are made and recalling the occasions she and her family would eat these tasty treats when she was a child. The food was good, but it was more enjoyable to watch her bask in the familiarity of the surroundings.

Same dancing started up and she whispered to me, "that's not Greek dancing." Having a hard believing that she could recognize this so definitively I asked how she knew. "Just wait," she said, "I'm sure it'll start eventually."  

Turning my attention to the artery-hardening Greek donuts, my friend soon pointed out the new activity underway in the center of the festival: "now that is Greek dancing!"

There were about five people all in a line, holding hands. They were doing synchronized steps, with the leader at the front of the line setting the pace and step routine. Periodically the leader would point to someone in the congo-like line and that person would become the new leader. It looked very active, and the Greeks can certainly keep it up for a long time! They all knew the moves, and there were no apparent gender rules: men or women could lead, and men as easily held hands with men as they did with women. (Alternatively the dancers place their hands on each other's shoulders.)

What struck me was the connectedness of it all. We don't dance like this in North America. Touching is only for couples, or for short-lived, good-humored congo lines. If it's not in a two-some, dancing is done solo. Sure, it's done in a group on a dance floor, but there is no holding hands and all doing the same moves. If everyone is doing the same moves, then again it's either as a two-some, or it's line dancing where no one touches anyone.

We've got the patent on individualism in the U.S. Heck, we've got the patent on individual faith, too. I wonder what life would be like if we lived more connected, if we practiced our faith more connected? Would we do more Greek dancing?

Lucy joins in a Greek wedding dance. Here's Lucy, 1971

Zombie love

Romeo and Juliet. Just say the words and it evokes thoughts of tragic love, and, usually, the balcony scene. It took until the balcony scene in the post zombie-apocalypse movie Warm Bodies for me to "get it" - Julie, the human, on the 2nd story outside ledge of her mansion, and "R", the zombie, on the ground below, looking up, imploring her to talk with him. "Ohhhh", I thought suddenly, "it's another remake!" The humans in Julie's world want Rr dead, the skeletal "bonies" in R's world want Julie dead - they're stuck, and falling in love.

Most know how Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet ends: poorly. They both die with the belief that their love made it impossible for them to live in their respective worlds without the other. (My apologies if I've just spoiled the story for you!)

But what would happen if the love that Romeo and Juliet shared could transform their communities? What if others learned from them, and instead of tragedy there is massive social change? 

(Spoiler Alert! If you want to watch the very enjoyable movie of Warm Bodies, read on at your own risk.) 

This is what happens in Warm Bodies. R, the zombie, who is rather more self-aware than most zombies, is thunderstruck when he sees the human, Julie. Instead of eating her, he protects her. His love for her, and eventually her love for him, begins to transform other zombies. They begin to have hope. 

Rather than dying in a pool of misunderstanding, remorse, poison and blood, R and Julie's impossible love spreads to the zombies and the humans, radically transforming everyone (much bonding occurs during the extermination of the bonies).  The literal wall of separation that protected the humans from the zombies is blown to bits, the zombies regain heartbeats, and the humans learn to integrate the zombies into their lives, helping them to become human again.

It's a lovely story. (Never mind the occasional scene of flesh and brain being eaten.) It's a gospel story. It's a story I want to be true so badly. (Not the zombie apocalypse part.) Love CAN transform. It can transform our economy, our prejudices, our wars, and our injustices. It can transform me, which is no minor miracle.

Warm Bodies may be a fairy tale, but the power of love that is portrayed here is anything but fanciful. The love of God that is revealed in the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus really does bring the dead to life. It's ours to experience, to offer, and to ask for. It's ours to live.

A GPS of anxiety and love

Daisy is six years old. I became her guardian when she was seven months old.  Our first and second apartments were on the third floor, so I got her a tall cat tree from which she could look down onto the world below. My current place is a townhome. Daisy has never been this close to the "real" world before. Deer, squirrels, other cats, and an occasional pair of chihuahuas come into the yard on a regular basis. I watch her whole body respond, "I want to be out there, I want to be out there, I want to be out there." 

Just about every time any door is open she is trying to get out. She'll sit for hours on a windowsill, sniffing the air, tail bristling when a next door tom mocks her imprisonment. She loves to scratch furniture but inexplicably -- and gratefully -- she has not tried to ruin the window screens, the thin, weak barrier between her and the great, wide world of scents, textures, companionship and competition. 

I'm overprotective. I'm fearful. If only she could be like other cats who could care less if they're outside or not. I have friends who have cats that don't even go near outside doors. And I have friends who allow their cats who come and go as they please, neither cat nor human particularly fussed or agitated about the perils of the outdoors....then there's me.

Granted, I have friends who passed up having sushi with Brandi Carlisle because their puppy was howling so mournfully in its crate at home. So I don't think I'm alone in my near-neurotic concern for my cat. My friend's puppy howls with soulful bellows, and Daisy looks longingly outside, hoping, waiting, begging for freedom. It crushes me.

I believe it's true that God knows where each of us is at every moment. But I'm not God, so today I ordered a GPS tracker for Daisy. 

I realize I risk ridicule with this admission.  I also realize I risk the wrath of bird lovers, and veterinarians who say that outdoor cats will not live as long as indoor ones. I know. Sigh, I know.

This love that protects, though, also wants her to be free. With limits. With some  controls. 

Daisy surely will prefer to be outside without the gadget on her little body. I would, too. I want freedom to be total. For if the freedom isn't total, then it's not freedom, right?

It would seem so, but I'm not so sure. If I were a surgeon I'd want the freedom to practice surgery, but in the beginning I'd feel freer if there was someone there watching me, ready to catch my mistakes and offer life-saving suggestions. The same would be true for a factory job, an accountant, anyone who works with toxic materials. 

Until we know how to be free, until we know how to function safely in our freedom, then the controls actually make us freer. Freer to fail. Freer to try new things. Freer to go slowly. 

If it's too controlled, though, then freedom is never achieved. When the boss never lets you work on your own, or time constraints are so tight that creativity is eradicated just so the tasks can get done. There are lines to this whole freedom thing.

The whole "free will" theological debate has certainly been argued up one side and down the other for centuries. Millenia. I'm not exactly sure how God's love and human freedom work together, but I'm trusting that somehow they work together for humanity's good - for us to experience freedom, yet within some controls. I want waaay more control from God many days. Way. More. And I know that if there was more then I would chafe more.

As Daisy wanders the neighborhood in her new GPS-laden harness next week, I'm going to be nervous. But my love lets her roam. Now if only I could program her not to eat other, smaller creatures... 

"Clothing optional," it read.

You know that dream where you're naked in front of others who are fully dressed? Now imagine the opposite: You're clothed in a roomful of naked people. Only it's not a dream, it's real. That was my Thursday evening...

For many years I've been drawn to the spiritual in nature. I find God in the outdoors, and I enjoy helping others connect with God on mountains, beside rivers, on trails in the woods. So when I had the chance to register with a group who was offering a backpacking retreat, I jumped at it. The fact this group arises from a different religious tradition was a bonus: I'd get to experience how others practice outdoor spirituality. My intention was to broaden my knowledge, make connections with others outside of my tradition, and enjoy God in the midst of it all.

It was only after I signed up that I read the fine print regarding the evening event that preceded the backpacking. We were going to attend a Native American sweat lodge for the purpose of purification. Note that this group isn't Native American, but they have found great meaning in the sweat lodge ritual prior to schlepping heavy packs for a weekend. "Interesting," I thought, "even more learning to be had!" But a few days before the retreat I realized I had missed two very key words in the description of the sweat lodge: "clothing optional."

I thought, "I can do this. Not many will really get naked, right?" "Right," I replied to myself. 

The sweat lodge itself is an interesting structure. It's a circular dome, approximately 12' in diameter, with an interior peak height of about 5'. Draped with heavy insulation-type blankets on the exterior, it looked kind of like a big, gray, wooly lady bug. In the center of the dirt floor is a pit where red-hot stones, plucked straight from a bonfire, are placed during the ritual. Waves of intense heat billow outward from the stones when the facilitator pours water on them.

Each of us brought two towels, one to sit on, and one to dry off after the sweat lodge. I had picked out a loose-fitting tank top and running shorts to wear. Having only met my fellow retreatants that day or the night before, I wondered nervously who, if any, would bare all. With the stones ready and lodge prepared, our lanky facilitator dropped his pants before stripping off his shirt. We're outdoors under a fantastic canopy of trees and one by one - all ten of my fellow lodge-sitters, nine men and one other woman - slowly remove every bit of their clothing canopies. Every. Single. Piece.

Except me. The awkwardness of the situation was highlighted as I stood in black shorts and an aqua top, amongst their gleaming white bodies, averting my gaze, trying to mask my inner freak out. "Seriously? Seriously???," my inner voice groaned. 

Around age four I got my first pair of glasses. At the time it was a badge of honor - I finally fit in with the rest of my bespectacled family. In my youth and adulthood it proved to be annoying, even with contact lenses. This night though, it was a godsend. Asking the guy next to me, who had done this ritual many times, whether or not I should bring my glasses into the lodge, I heard the wonderful words "that would not be a good idea."  I removed them, which now meant that I was almost blind and slightly panicked about stubbing a toe or falling in the fire, but, hey, I couldn't see! Granted, no one else would know I was almost blind, thus I realized that I needed to work on not staring directionless, lest I appear to be checking out someone's plumbing.

Our facilitator - I'll call him Jim - got into the lodge and sat, spread-eagled, by the door. "Come on in," he said cheerily. I happened to be nearest the door, so I stooped, entered the lodge, and shuffled around the entire circle to be seated at Jim's right. In turn, everyone else paraded in around the pit, stooped and shuffling, to take the next spot in the circle. It was tight in there, and took effort to keep my bare knees from resting against the naked knees on either side of me, especially since it was total darkness when the blanket door-flap was closed during the ritual.

There were four rounds in total, some containing songs, some including dialogue and sharing. Each round took approximately 15 - 20 minutes (I think), with a break in between. During each break we had the option of shuffling out of the lodge to hose down and "expose" ourselves to the night air. With each round more rocks were added (by a naked participant with a pitch fork, if you can imagine that), more water was poured on, and it grew hotter and hotter. Near the end of round three I began to be concerned. My heart rate was rising higher than I am comfortable with, and I began to be light-headed. As the group entered into a song I did not know, my hand found Jim's shoulder and I leaned over to whisper that I needed to get out. Now. No one had yet needed to bail early during a round, and it felt like it took an enormous amount of inner strength to face the (self-constructed) embarrassment of exiting early. 

Instead of Jim immediately opening the door flap, letting in the light, and letting me out like I wanted, he said, "It'll be over in a few minutes. You can lay down behind me, it might make it better." My first thought was, "Dude, are you kidding? Lay behind you? You have no clothes on!", which was closely followed by a second thought, "Whatever...I'm dying here!" Leaning over slightly, my head and shoulders felt instant relief behind his back. It was staggering how much heat his body was absorbing, shielding me, making it possible to finish out the round.

One other guy also sat out the final round. Both of us stumbled to find our glasses and put on some dry clothes, then we sat quietly on a bench, listening respectfully to the muffled sounds coming from the lodge. When it was over, Jim insisted on all of us shaking hands and saying thank you to one another - three times. My fellow fourth round dropout and I were completely clothed, so at least I had company in the intensely odd experience of shaking hands repeatedly with a line of nude people. By this time I had gotten pretty good at keeping my eyes at eye-level and the glasses didn't instill quite as much anxiety. Or maybe I was just getting used to these naked friends of mine.

I can't say that I had a spiritual encounter during the sweat lodge (unless you count the dream-like aspect of this surreal event!) , but I certainly appreciated the physical sensations I experienced (no, no...not those kinds of sensations!). Firstly, the sweat was so unlike the perspiration from exercise. It felt clean. In physical exertion the sweat leaves behind a gritty, salty residue. Sweat lodge sweat felt like true water; water that is emanating from just about every pore in the body. Even my fingers were dripping sweat. Instead of the usual ickiness that accompanies exercise sweat, this felt like a self-generating shower. Sort of.

Secondly, while sitting motionless in the open air after the third round it was like my body was humming. There was almost an electric charge to it, an energy pulsing.  I can't recall ever feeling that way, like my body was tuning into universal vibrations. It was wild, and admittedly, it felt good! I have no idea what was really going on physiologically, but I can see why this is done as a purification ritual. With the combination of the clean sweat and the body hum, there was a sense of newness. Sort of.

I can say for sure that I'm really glad I could experience these feelings and sensations with my clothes on.  Not to disparage those who were flappin' free, not at all. When asked by my backpacking group what my pastor friends would've thought of this ceremony I replied, "Well, in general Christians aren't as comfortable with nakedness." The quick response: "Oh, our tradition isn't, either. Even Native Americans don't necessarily do sweat lodges naked; many wear clothes." Oh. So the naked thing truly, truly is "optional," and everyone - except me - jumped on board.

Contemplative Richard Rohr regularly hosts men's retreats in New Mexico. For a good chunk of one day the guys are sent off into the desert alone. It is common for many of them to strip off their clothes during this alone time, even though Rohr does not advocate this. Something about nature and wilderness can cause a person to want to be fully "them," with no barriers. In comparison with life wounds and inner emotional turmoil, clothes are a relatively easy barrier to remove in an attempt to reveal more of one's authentic self. 

I do wish I could be more comfortable with nakedness. Clothing is a huge part of Scripture, as is nakedness. Adam and Eve looked desperately for clothes after choosing to find life in a source other than God, which means that beforehand they pranced and cared for the earth in bare, bronzed bodies. Several places in the Biblical text say that God clothes people in righteousness. Clothes are a literal protective covering, and a symbolic covering of acceptance, purity, and honor. And, conversely, clothes are also equated with violence, as in "he is clothed with violence." (You are what you wear, maybe?)

In 2 Corinthians 5, the apostle Paul relates nakedness with a longing to be united with God in heaven. "I don't want to be naked," Paul groans, "I want God!"

Being naked, just the very thought of being naked, can evoke some powerful feelings. As I experienced on Thursday, just being in the presence of naked people brings up a lot of emotions!! But these bodies of ours are good. Really good. As lumpy, pimply, dimply, or sculpted as they may be. I may not have checked out the unclothed forms of my fellow sweat lodge-sitters, but if I had I would have seen beauty there. (Confession: I think I still might've given the dangly parts a bit of a miss, though.)

Maybe, had my brain been able to consider it, I might've been able to channel the emotional awkwardness into recognizing a spiritual desire for something similar to what Paul describes in 2 Corinthians. Maybe our nakedness/clothed-ness has more to do with our spirituality than we realize.

Maybe. In situations of group nudity, though, I'm still happy that my vision stinks.

You are here

In the past few weeks I have been on several trails where the sign with the overview map indicates "you are here" with an arrow or big, red lettering.  On all of the signs the "you are here" was clearly rubbed, two of them being touched so much that it was impossible to discern where it was we were, precisely. As my hiking friend put her finger on our location on yet another trail sign, I wondered at the need to actually touch the sign. Simply pointing at the location doesn't seem to cut it, one needs to ground oneself by making contact with the map, somehow physically connecting with where one is standing. It's intriguing.

The need to know where one is seems to be human nature. The plight of being lost is generally to be avoided at all costs. Moments where I've gotten turned around in the wilderness and I'm not sure where I am or how I got there are some of my scariest experiences in the outdoors.  I'm a mapper, a planner, and a GPS user - I like to know where I am. I have friends who like to take new routes to see new things, but few do this in any way that can "really" get them lost. 

Also last week I read Barbara Brown Taylor's "An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith." One chapter is titled, "The Practice of Getting Lost: WIlderness." Practice. The practice of getting lost. She advocates getting lost on purpose. Nutty.

Taylor encourages readers to practice getting lost (yes, really trying to get lost physically) because it can help us when we find ourselves hopelessly lost, in a situation that is not our choosing. 

All I can do is pay attention to what happens when I am lost in the wilderness, with no ability to help myself...The practice of getting lost has nothing to do with wanting to go there. You lose your job. Your lover leaves. The baby dies. At this level, the advanced practice of getting lost consists of consenting to be lost, since you have no other choice. the consenting itself becomes your choice, as you explore the possibility that life is for you and not against you, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. 

The rock-bottom trust seems to come naturally to some people, while it takes disciplined practice for others. I am one of the latter...To that end, I keep my eyes open for opportunities to get slightly lost, so that I can gradually build the muscles necessary for radical trust.

...However you choose to do it, the practice of getting lost is both valuable and undervalued, at least by the North American culture most of us know best. In this culture, the point is to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible, even if that means you miss most of the territory, including the packed dirt under your feet. Sometimes this is because you are doing at least five other things while you are in transit, including talking on the phone, listening to the radio, drinking a mocha latte, checking your text messages, telling your dog to get in the backseat, and checking out how good you look in your sunglasses by admiring yourself in the rearview mirror.

Once you become lost, everything by the dog and the telephone will become suddenly unimportant--the telephone because it may allow you call someone who loves you enough to come find you, and the dog to keep you company while you wait. If you are not able to set priorities any other way, then getting lost may be the kick in the pants you have been waiting for. (pg. 80 & 85)

So, according to Taylor, getting lost builds trust, and it helps determine priorities. It's certainly nice to reflect upon these things when I can place a finger on a sign to determine exactly where I am right now, because that won't always be the case. And it can help me gain some perspective on all those times when I have been lost and adrift. How does being lost help you?

Millennial hot button

When I was working at REI one of the main company-wide concerns was acquiring a larger market share of Millennials (people born roughly from the early 80s to early 2000s). REI has a fantastic customer base of older persons (trust me, I heard, "I shopped at REI when there was just one store, in Capitol Hill" a LOT), but in order to survive into the coming years when the aging customer base spends less and less, they are going to have to appeal to a younger generation. And most younger generations don't want to shop where their parents and grandparents shop. I know I didn't.

The Church keeps asking this same question, over and over again. It was the hot button topic when I was young and in church, and even though I'm not that old, it's still a primary concern. "Where are the young folk and how do we appeal to them?" 

In the first viral article this week, Rachel Held Evans, writes, 

Invariably, after I've finished my presentation (on the needs of young evangelicals) and opened the floor to questions, a pastor raises his hand and says, "So what your saying is we need hipper worship bands...." And I proceed to bang my head against the podium.

People lauded the article as "right on!" and "truth!" Then another blog went around that didn't necessarily refute Evans, but offered a ten-point list of what Millennials really want. It's a great list. Yet more than one person said, "Ummm, this seems to be what most everyone wants, regardless of age." Values such as authenticity and listening to the Spirit, being valued, being real, being actually involved in the world, these are inclinations that a lot of church-goers have, and they don't have to have piercings or blue hair to hold them.

Then, yesterday, a third blog by Brett McCracken came on the scene that questioned the basis for shape-shifting churches that become overly concerned with adapting to trends. McCracken gives some darn good reasons as to why churches should remain "un-cool." He concludes, 

As a Millennial, if I’m truly honest with myself, what I really need from the church is not another yes-man entity enabling my hubris and giving me what I want. Rather, what I need is something bigger than me, older than me, bound by a truth that transcends me and a story that will outlast me...

Many of us banged palms on the table and said, "Yes!"

Indeed, yes. Yes to all of this. Yes to the desire to discover who the next generation is. Yes to valuing who they are to the point of being concerned for whether or not we're shutting them out by the ways we "do" our faith. Yes to the openness to try new things and "always reform."  Yes to getting out of our own little age-based, culture-based religious boxes. 

For me, this whole conversation dove-tails off of recent words I've heard from sociologist Brené Brown. She says that all persons, regardless of age, race, gender, wealth, regardless of any defining factor, want to belong.

We want to belong.  

But, contrary to what most of think and practice, "fitting in," is not the way to find belonging. When I try to belong to a group the first thing I consider is how I can be more like them in order blend, and to "fit." Instead, she says, "Fitting in the greatest barrier to belonging."

Brown writes,  

Fitting in, I've discovered during the past decade of research, is assessing situations and groups of people, then twisting yourself into a human pretzel in order to get them to let you hang out with them. Belonging is something else entirely—it's showing up and letting yourself be seen and known as you really are...

In other words, real belonging requires you to be who you are. Otherwise, it's not "you" who belongs, but a figment, a shadow, of what you think others want you to be.  So "belonging starts with self-acceptance." In the case of the church there's a significant need to quit panicking about what new trends need to be adopted in order to attract  Millennials. If the church instead had a better sense of self, and a better sense of authenticity, then I think we'd have more diverse congregations. I think. 

That doesn't mean that we shouldn't learn what is important to those who are younger than us. We do this, though, to be truly interested in them as fellow humans, and not as commodities.  

In the case of REI it just might work to have young, good-looking, ripped models, and to market gear that appeals to younger tastes. In the case of really large, hip churches, the situation is quite likely the same: be like a popular rock band and the youngsters will come. But are they coming because of the scene and the ease of "fitting in", or are they coming because they belong? Are they coming because they blend, or because they can truly be themselves?

I can't argue enough for the need to be a people-group that welcomes others, in all of their imperfections, in all of their quirks, and in all their grandeur. And I don't want to fit in, I want to belong.

Walls

Several years ago I had the chance to visit Quebec City. Located in Canada, visiting here is like visiting old-world France. The food is different, the language is different, the customs are different - you know you are not in Anglo land! Quebec City was one of the original European settlements in North America, and adding to the old-ness is its status as the only walled city north of Mexico. 

The walls are impressive. The city did not suffer a siege after they were built, but they offered protection nonetheless. Today the grand walls offer history and uniqueness. What most captivated me about them, though, was their final purpose: to keep out the Americans. 

Peoples south of the border are typically unaware that the U.S. attacked our neighbors to the north in attempts to "enlist" Canadians in the fight against the British. Americans were the aggressors, Canadians the defenders. We fought our neighbors in hopes of forcing them to join in our rebellion against Britain, and in so doing, gain more colonies for a new "United States of America."

I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time.  

Quebec City was vulnerable to attack. The fledging U.S. was vulnerable against the British. Quebec City hunkered down, the U.S. fought. Both relatively-soon-to-be-countries resisted their vulnerabilities and did whatever they believed necessary to survive and thrive. 

We tend to do that with vulnerability: defeat it. We can wall ourselves up or go on attack. It's a human condition. 

Or is it? 

Tonight there is a gathering of people to discuss vulnerability. Brené Brown states that “Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.” The Bible states that we find strength in our weakness. Apparently vulnerability can be a good thing, it can make us more human, more compassionate, and more connected. Embracing this reality is counter-cultural, and tough. I look forward to hearing about journeys of vulnerabilities tonight, and I welcome the challenge and freedom it can bring. 

Widening the trail(s)

Echoes did a service project in the Mt Baker area yesterday. I was pumped to sign up for this one because it is my favorite fall hike: Yellow Aster Butte. A section of the trail had been wiped out due to a slide this winter. The trail maintenance crew of the previous day had cut out the path, and our job was to widen it. This entailed cutting back the brush on the upslope, then using grub hoes to cut into the slope and eventually level out the path. After a fair bit of work, the trail became wide enough to traverse, helping people to enjoy creation a bit more safely. And, the more people who enjoy the backcountry, the more who will strive to protect it. Hikers of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities passed us yesterday as we dug in the dirt and moved rocks, most of them thanking us as they moved up the trail.

The work was enjoyable, the sun and breeze rejuvenating, the view of Baker spectacular, and the camaraderie encouraging.  

Today Echoes hosted a booth at Bellingham Pride. In a way, it's another widening of trail. Four churches and a center for spirituality had a booth. All of us were communicating in our own ways that the path on which God is found (or, more likely, the path on which God finds us) is probably wider than most of us think. The Echoes booth received a fair amount of attention because we were offering glitter tattoos. People requested hearts, stars, rainbows, wings, and the occasional name to be temporarily tattooed onto cheeks, hands or arms, illuminated by neon glitter. It was a privilege to be welcomed into the personal space of so many others, sharing paths, ever so briefly.

The work was enjoyable, the sun and breeze rejuvenating, the people-watching remarkable, and the camaraderie encouraging.  

A shapely lump of clay

Today marks the first "official" day of Echoes.  

It's been a long time coming, though. From DNA parameters, to personality and skill development, to the influence of friends and education, to having a vision for a worshipping community in which I'd like to participate, to relocating in Bellingham, to connecting with early committers, this venture of Echoes is not a whim, is not random happenstance.

In one of my pastoral education classes I was required to read the book, Glittering Images, by romance-novel-inclined author, Susan Howatch. The writing was enjoyable, and at least one message was clear: be very, very careful or self-deception and the lure of power can topple even the most well-intentioned clergy. Thus began several months of reading other books in the Starbridge series. 

In Absolute Truths, Howatch includes a brash sculptor a side character. In one scene the sculptor explains the nature of her work, the process of creating something out of a formless lump of clay. When asked about how she reconciles all the disasters in the shaping process she replies,

“Every step I take—every bit of clay I ever touch—they’re all there in the final work. If they hadn’t happened, then this”—she gestured to the sculpture—“wouldn’t exist. In fact they had to happen for the work to emerge as it is. So in the end every major disaster, every tiny error, every wrong turning, every fragment of discarded clay, all the blood, sweat and tears—everything has meaning. I reuse, reshape, recast all that goes wrong so that in the end nothing is wasted and nothing is without significance and nothing ceases to be precious to me.” (377-8)

I find that this new beginning of the Echoes community is extremely vulnerable for me. Questions swirl in my brain, "Will it survive? Will it find life outside of its vision? Will others really want to join in this alternative to traditional church?" The vulnerability, I think, comes from the origins of Echoes - it has emerged out of ALL of the bits of my life: those that have been kept and honed, and those, especially, that have been discarded.

All of the successes and failures of my life are meaningful. All of them. And all of them shape what happens today and tomorrow. All of the twists and turns of my theological convictions are included. All of my early childhood insecurities, my need for exploration, my desire to be involved in pursuits that are larger than me. All of my career failures and vocational dreams come true. And all of it, up until this moment in time, has led to the risk of starting Echoes. 

The risk may pay off big-time in the formation of a long-lasting community of faith in Bellingham that meets the spiritual and relational needs of many 'hamsters. The combination of my sculpted story, with the sculpted story of every single person who visits Echoes, with the sculpted story of Bellingham, may just combine to make Echoes into a vital, vibrant community, for such a time as this. 

And it may not. The risk may end in a quiet, diffuse, fading away. (Admittedly, I do pray that there is no loud, clanging end to Echoes!)  The fantastic part of this, the redemptive part of this, is that if Echoes does not survive long into the future, then it, too, is not lost. The fleeting days of Echoes will be discarded bits of clay that perfect the sculpture.

So, in the end, the risk is not really a risk. The vulnerability is self-constructed, and the end result will be beautiful no matter what. For I'd like to think that God is the sculptor, and God, in my estimation, is into creating beauty. The sculptor in Absolute Truths created a masterpiece, but I'd be just as happy with the lumpy horse (or is it a llama?) in the above photo. Beauty, after all, has a wide range of appreciation.